It was so easy to be brave
playing cowboys and Indians, or
G.I. Joe to the Nazis.
You got shot; you got up.
Your mother called you home
for dinner.
You waved goodbye
looking forward to the next day
when all the previous day’s
cowboys and Indians,
G.I.Joes and Nazis would
build a fort in the
vacant lot generously called
a prairie
and maybe you
would run home to
sneak a swig of bourbon
from the
bottle in the cabinet
by the sink
and a couple of
cigarettes from the pack of
Chesterfields on the end table
to smoke in the fort
as a reward for
a good day’s effort.
Back when everyone was ten,
it was easy to be brave.
Now, those kids
have given up smoking
and drinking on doctor’s orders,
watch the nightly news,
lock the doors,
go to bed and pray
not to have bad dreams.